Night out with one of the biggest, and I mean biggest, stars in Hollywood

So frustrating. I wish I could say his name. But I can’t.

Some hints would be ok, though, I think. He’s tall, not a runt like so many of them. In his 30s. In great shape. Made a movie sort of like Failure to Launch (2006), but bigger. Another one sort of like War of the Worlds (2005). Another one sort of like Atonement (2007).

I was just back from China and got called over to his house in Malibu by my agent, to tweak a script that “a mega director” is about to shoot. I’m in this ridiculous man cave working on my laptop and, well, I’ll call him The Star, says “Let’s go get a drink.”

The next thing I know, we’re over at Moonshadows Blue Lounge drinking Seelback cocktails and fending off beautiful young women. The Star spots a couple of grips he knows, anti-slumming, and we drink with them.

Then we’re in a cab heading over to the Father’s Office in Santa Monica, where we drink Tempteds and swap lies with a set decorator and three women from the makeup department on a straight-to-video shoot in the Valley.

The next thing I know, The Star is puking in the men’s room and begging me to find an A.A. meeting he can go to. No shortage of those, believe me, and the next thing I know, we’re in the cab again on the way to a church on Wilshire. We walk in and the guy talking takes one look at The Star and sits down. Now they’re all watching us and then The Star is asked to say a word or two. He drops into a chair with an audible clank from the two bottles of U’Luvka in his sports-coat pocket. He doesn’t say anything. After a long and uncomfortable silence, the meeting starts up again. The Star looks a little green and he finally stands up, takes out one of the bottles, uncaps it, takes a long drag, and the guy next to me is licking his lips. Bad karma all around.

The Star wants to see his mom, who lives in Glendale or Burbank, somewhere up that way, and we’re in her front yard with The Star lying in the grass weeping. She won’t come out. His father is a drunk somewhere in Texas or Montana. The Star is a complete mess and I’ve got nothing done on the script. Plus, I’m probably drunker than he is.

“I bought her this house,” he says.

The cab takes us home but he won’t let me come in, even to get my laptop. My agent has to retrieve it the next day. I had hoped to be able to say that The Star acted like a complete gentleman and you know what? Because I swiped a picture of him and “one of Hollywood’s hottest women” from his bedroom, in which they are doing something that never appeared on any DVD, even in the outtakes or blooper reel, because I’ve got that picture for my scrapbook, I’m going to say that he did act like a gentleman whenever I’m asked.

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